


Better Together

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Greg POV, M/M, Married mystrade, Mycroft POV, Parentlock, Past Infidelity, Surrogacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 07:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13336026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Thirteen years on from their wedding day, Mycroft Holmes lives an entirely different life. He's devoted to his children, writing a book, and happy spending his days with his and Greg's youngest son. Mycroft reflects on how close he came to losing it all, as he plans to surprise his husband for lunch at work.Greg knows he's not as smart as his genius husband...but he's capable of learning. And one thing he's definitely learned over the years is that his husband means everything to him, and that family is something we build and protect.





	Better Together

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for infidelity (it happened in the past, but beginning about midway through the story it is referenced several times).
> 
> I posted the first part of this, from Mycroft's POV, last night on Tumblr and I think it upset a few readers. I get it, I do. I think we'd all like to think that in fiction at least everything can be perfect. But life is rarely perfect; it takes hard work and forgiveness, and love--the real, ugly, hard kind of love that knows when to bite back and when to yield. I like to think Mycroft and Greg have that kind of love. This ends happily, I promise you.

          Grasping the last of his patience with desperate hands, Mycroft called up the stairs, “Milo! I need you downstairs _right now!_ We have approximately four minutes to get everyone into their wellies and coats and out the door.” He heard a sullen muttering but was thankful that he couldn’t actually hear any distinct words. It was far easier, he had found, to love your preteen when they were in another room.

          Depositing the bag for the dry cleaners on the coat rack by the front door, Mycroft broke his own rule about shoes in the house, and sat down to put on his trainers before he strode into the kitchen, which looked like a bomb site. That is to say: a normal school morning. The twins, Hazel and Scarlet, still young enough, at eight, to view one another as allies, were squeezed onto one chair, elbows on the table, dark red hair framing their intent faces as they watched something on their tablet. Their tablet which was forbidden in the mornings. Their tablet which had been in the bottom drawer of his desk in the study as of six the previous night.

          “Why thank you, girls,” Mycroft breezed past, scooping the tablet right out from under their noses. “This will be perfect for reading the news stories while Alfie has his swim class.” He ignored their indignant cries, “Poppy, _noooo!_ ” (Scarlet, their drama queen), and “Utterly unfair!” (Hazel, their future barrister).

          “Poppy!” Young Alfie’s greeting lacked all of the drama and pout of his elder siblings. He beamed sunnily at his father from his booster chair, chubby face smeared with egg. There was even egg and a bit of jam in his Afro. Mycroft plucked off his son’s bib, expertly wiped his messy face and plastered it with kisses instead. He smiled against Alfie’s cocoa-coloured cheek; while he would never play favourites with his children, it was hard to deny that currently the four year old was the easiest to deal with.

          “Put your plates in the dishwasher,” Mycroft reminded the girls, “and run put on your shoes–wellies too!” he yelled after them. The forecast was for steady rain until late evening. “All done?” He asked Alfie, who nodded and mumbled around a mouthful of toast. “Not with your mouth full,” Mycroft said mildly.

          Shrieks made him wince; from the sound of it the girls were shocked but not harmed. “Inside voices, please,” Mycroft reminded them, moving toward the foyer, Alfie skipping to keep up. He stopped short, “Oh my.”

          Wavy fringe no longer hung over Milo’s dark eyes, his dark brown hair had been shaved quite short on the sides, and the middle and top brushed and gelled into a faux hawk. It was not too badly done for a child his age—but then, Milo had always been artistic and adventurous. Milo’s face was belligerent, waiting for judgment and shouting. _You look just like Greg_ , Mycroft thought, but all he said was, “Impressive. Is that,” indicating the hair, “Where my hair dryer went to?” He didn’t say anything about the black nail varnish. The smallish feet in their Spiderman socks made his fatherly heart squeeze with love.

          “… Yeah…”

          "Free to a good home,” Mycroft said, smiling. He passed a hand over his hair, which he wore nearly buzzed to his scalp these days; with his thinning hair and receding hairline he preferred it. Although along with the nearly trimmed beard he feared it made him look like a convict. Not so, Greg had assured him, splashing in the bath. Not remotely so. “It’s hardly needed now.”

          Hazel giggled, Scarlet protested that he looked “very cool,” and Milo almost smiled. A victory. “Let me take a picture for your Dad,” Mycroft suggested, ignoring the clock. They would be late. It was hardly a tragedy. It was hardly the first time.

          “He’ll hate it,” Milo muttered, slouching. Mycroft bit his tongue on a tart reminder to stand up straight and just smiled at him over his mobile. “Nonsense… Have you never seen the pictures of him from his youth?” Milo shook his head, the girls whined to see them and Mycroft managed to herd everyone out the door by promising pizza and pictures that evening.

          “And we may stay up until ten, may'n’t we?” Scarlet wheedled from the back seat of the Passat. He glanced at her in the rear view mirror and she smiled winningly. As always his heart gave a pang when she looked at him just so, with the light making her pale eyes so strikingly familiar. Scarlet and Hazel were not identical twins, although they looked close enough to be mistaken for just that quite often. Scarlet looked the most like Sherlock, despite the hair, and at certain times she looked like a young, ginger version of his mother, whom she had never met.

          None of the children had met his parents, nor would they ever.

          “I expect a good report of you from your teachers before your Dad and I decide if you may remain up.” He raised his voice at the grumble and outcry. “ _And_ I expect a peaceful ride to school.”

          Amazingly they settled down and the remainder of the relatively short drive was very nearly quiet. Mycroft pulled in down the road from the school and parked at the kerb. “Stay put, Alfie,” he sternly warned the boy, who at four was becoming far too adventurous and dexterous for his peace of mind. More than once he’d worked his way loose from his car-seat during these drop offs.

          “Love you, Poppy,” Scarlet said breathlessly, hugging him exuberantly and then dancing from foot to foot as she waited for Hazel to give Mycroft a fond squeeze before they linked hands and joined their friends as they streamed toward the front entrance. Watching them go, Mycroft caught the eye of one of the teachers who was on duty and nodded his head toward them. The young man nodded and gave him an okay sign, and Mycroft turned toward Milo. He wasn’t quite rebellious enough to leave without saying goodbye, but he was highly reluctant to participate in the daily routine.

          Mycroft told his children he loved them every day. They never lacked for hugs and kisses and attention. He made sure that they knew, as he had never really felt he did as a child, that they were loved simply for being themselves. Their father’s love, they understood, was not dependent on academic achievements, or musical skill, or cleverness or obedience or beauty.

          He’d known the time was coming when Milo would be too old for public displays, and at eleven he might even be quite a bit past it already, but Mycroft hadn’t been entirely ready. The little boy had held his heart from the moment he was placed into Mycroft’s arms in the hospital, and it was achingly difficult to feel him pulling away. Normal, Greg had soothed; normal, the books all said. Still painful.

          Milo hunched into his too-big all-weather jacket with the patches he’d been collecting for the last year. Mycroft had learned so sew to put those on. He couldn’t help but brush a hand over Milo’s sleeve. “Don’t worry,” he murmured dryly, seeing the embarrassment dawning, “You’re too old, I dare say, for hugs.” He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice, “But I’ll never stop telling you I love you.”

 _“Pop…”_ Milo groaned, drawing it out, “Don’t be wet.” But his huge brown eyes were affectionate, and he was biting back a reluctant smile.

          “God forbid,” Mycroft sighed. He glanced over his shoulder, “Now go, have an excellent day and learn something new. I judge you have no more than twenty seconds until the final bell, and I have less than two until your brother affects his escape.”

          From the safety of his car, Mycroft watched him go, biting his thumb to keep from tearing up. He’d scarcely cried so much in his entire life as he had since having children. Nothing opened you up and made a marshmallow out of you quite like offspring. His phone dinged just as Alfie threw an action figure at his head and demanded, “We go?”

          Sighing on a laugh, Mycroft wiped a knuckle under his eyes and picked up his mobile from the hands free clip on the dash. It was a text from his husband.

_We’ve got a teenager on our hands._

_No mistaking that look._

Mycroft snorted forcefully, "Oh I very much think not.” He typed back a firm reply.

_We have a year and a half until_

_he’s a teenager._

          Two texts from his husband had arrived by the time he had parked at the community center and was walking hand in hand into the building with Alfie. He read them, steps slowing.

_You know how Hazel was a 30 year_

_old by the time she was 3? Well_

_that’s our Milo…he’s a teenager now_

_whether the calendar says so or not._

_God help us._

 

          Oh Lord. No doubt Greg was right, he usually was when it came to Milo. God help them indeed if Milo followed his Dad’s footsteps. Mycroft had seen the files on Greg’s younger years. Heard the anecdotes. Seen the scars and the tattoos.

          “Come on,” Alfie urged impatiently, tugging on Mycroft’s hand, tired of his pokey pace. “We’ll be late!”

          “Sorry, Alfie,” Mycroft apologized, putting away his phone. “I was talking to Daddy.”

          “Daddy’s at work.”

          “Yes indeed. Maybe we’ll see if he’s free for lunch today. Would you like that? Just you and me and Daddy?”

          “And Mummy?” Alfie asked, face lighting up.

          Taking the breath he always had to take at the thought of Sally Donovan, Mycroft summoned a smile, “Perhaps. She might be busy though.”

          “Okay.” Alfie was content. To him she was his Mummy and she lived in a different house and he didn’t see her all the time but that was “okay” because he had his Poppy and his Daddy and his brother and sisters.

          Mycroft on the other hand…he hovered somewhere between grudging acceptance and unenthusiastic liking. His one-time friendly fondness for the woman who had once been Greg’s stalwart Sergeant had died a hideous and painful death the night he learned his husband of nearly ten years had had a brief affair with his former Sergeant. The news, crippling as it had been, had been further compounded by the news that she was pregnant.

          Milo had been the result of a serious and ongoing discussion over the course of more than five months. Careful screening and selection had determined the woman who was to carry him. Greg’s seed had fathered the boy but he’d always felt equally Mycroft’s child.

          A few years later, determined not to have Milo grow up in isolation, they had once again used their surrogate, this time with Mycroft providing the necessary DNA. The twins, Greg had assured him, crying like a baby, were already his daughters. Three, they agreed, holding their little family close, was perfect.

          The decision to retire from a career which had nearly consumed him had come surprisingly easy for Mycroft. He wanted to be there for little Milo, and the infant twins, rather than have the children raised by a nanny and by child minders, only seeing their overworked fathers just before bedtime. It had been a perfect solution, especially since Greg was promoted to Detective Chief Inspector around that time.

          The promotion had meant more stress for Greg, but less time in the field, less chance of something fatal happening to him in the performance of his duty. Mycroft had taken the increased attendance at meetings and the grousing about politics and in-fighting, and Greg’s personal bugaboo, paperwork, as a happy trade-off for knowing his husband was far less likely to die at the hands of a criminal. In many ways their routine had settled

          Which made it all the more noticeable when once or twice Greg came home late and shifty eyed, hurrying into the shower before he’d even kiss Mycroft hello. A tiny part of Mycroft suspected something; but he hadn’t been able to imagine that Greg–his loving, wonderful husband and partner, the man who called him _sunshine_ , the man who held their children so tenderly and made love to him so sweetly, could do that to him. To them. To their life.

          It had been both a shock and a confirmation of his unquiet fears, to have Greg tell him. Mycroft had left the room, unable even to talk, his pain such a physical thing that his bones had ached. Locking Greg out of their room, he had burrowed into the bed–their bed–and wept so hard that his sinuses blocked and his eyes were still raw and swollen the next day.

          Greg had been the one person beside his brother that Mycroft had thought he could trust and depend on absolutely. “I am,” Greg had promised desperately the next day, his own tears falling faster than Mycroft’s, fingers cramping around Mycroft’s hand. “Jesus, Mycroft, I _swear_ … I was and I will be again. Please give me a chance to prove myself to you.” His eyes were devastated, as hollow and haunted as Mycroft felt. “I’ll do anything.”

          _Anything_ had turned out to be a transfer to a different department, marriage counseling, endless apologies, and separate beds for six months, near silent fights when the children were in bed, tears and heartache and flung accusations that found their mark with stunning aim. It took eleven months before Mycroft let him make love to him, twelve before he could say Sally’s name without gritting his teeth. They still had weekly counseling sessions–which they had decided was the best goddamn thing to happen to their marriage aside from the children–which helped immensely.

          But the biggest reason their union had been healed was walking alongside Mycroft into the changing rooms. Alfie smiled up at him, and Mycroft smiled back. People had warned him he would resent the baby. That he would be a source of contention and leverage and endless bitterness.

          They were so wrong, Mycroft reflected, watching his son splash happily about the instructor like a baby whale in water wings. They were wrong. Alfie had healed them. He’d brought their family back together.

 

******

 

          Unthinking, Greg’s hand reached for his coffee mug. When it closed around his reusable water bottle he sighed from his toes. Giving up coffee had been more difficult and painful than a root canal; he was now allowed one single mug a day. No more cream and sugar for Greg, just a dash of soymilk and a spoonful of sugar substitute. The pain of his sacrifice was greatly leavened by his husband delivering the steaming mug to him and kissing him awake each morning.

          Smiling, Greg took a swig of water, eyes on the framed picture on his desk. On the left was a snap of the kids taken at Lego Land earlier in the year—even their eldest had summoned a smile that day— and on the right was a picture of Mycroft, smiling from blue-gray eyes that shone with good humour and love and affection. For the longest time it had been a picture of Mycroft on their wedding day; but he’d replaced it a few years ago with a candid shot of Mycroft which he’d snapped on their ill-fated trip to Scotland. “A second honeymoon,” Greg had enthused, proposing the idea. It had been nearly two years since his affair nearly ripped their marriage assunder, their life had been hectic and wonderful and crammed with work and children and counseling, the arrival and absorption into their home and their hearts of little Alfie.

          The idea had been wonderful, but the reality had been travel delays, misplaced room bookings, last minute scramble to find a mid-price hotel, and faulty heating, days of icy snow and blowing winds…in a way it had been perfect. They’d spent the majority of their time in bed, making love, sleeping, and talking, with plenty of Skype calls home to talk to the kids, who they’d missed so badly that Mycroft had had a nightmare about his childhood on the third night.

          “I love you, sunshine,” Greg had whispered, stroking Mycroft’s sweat-damp hair back off his face and kissing the salt tracks of tears from his cheeks. He cuddled him close, legs tangled, heart aching from how fiercely he loved his husband; as always, regret, sharp and bitter, pierced his heart. His own damned hubris and stupidity had nearly cost him the man he loved far more even than their children—and his love for _them_ was boundless and deep.

          “You are my family,” Mycroft had sighed, framing his face and finding a smile, “You and the children, Sherlock and John and Rosie…you’re all I need.” He’d swallowed huskily, “Sometimes the ghosts come back, but you always shine a light into even the darkest corners.”

          “You’re the shining light,” Greg had countered, rolling him onto his back and covering him protectively, raining kisses down onto his face, “You’re my sunshine.” A smile had betrayed him, “My o—”

          He chuckled now, remembering Mycroft’s scowl and the hand he’d slapped over his mouth, warning him not to sing. Greg had, of course, promptly finished the song, tussling with his giggling husband, who kept warning him that the local dogs were going to declare him their leader with his howls and bellowing. It had been one of the best memories of recent years, as they had finally felt like Mycroft and Greg again. Maybe a little tarnished, and with a few cracks, but beautiful and whole and strong.

          Resisting the urge to pick up his mobile and send his husband another text, Greg instead jiggled the mouse, banishing the picture of Mycroft and himself on the day of their engagement and pulled up the reports on the Hammersmith case. Time to turn his mind to the horrible mundanities of his job, and earn the money to keep his family in trainers; Milo was set for a growth spurt if he wasn’t very much mistaken, and Hazel could wreck a pair of football boots in a fortnight.

          Surfacing a few hours later, he discovered it was nearing lunchtime, as his grumbling stomach assured him, and he’d just finished his third bottle of water in time to silence the reminder on his fitness tracker. He was fifty-five, with a desk job and a family history of heart disease; at the turning of the New Year he had proposed a fresh start. The past nine months had been tough, but Greg had finally given up cigarettes—he scratched at the patch on his arm— he was weaning himself off of coffee, and Mycroft had declared fried foods verboten.

          The fitness tracker reminded him to get up and move throughout the day (both his waistline and his back had thanked him), his water consumption was up, his cholesterol and resting heart rate were down, and overall it was getting easier. His secretary, Maeve, was a blessing, as she kept him away from the pastries and birthday cakes that always seemed to be present, refused to get him any coffee, and shooed him out the door at lunchtime so he could walk to the café and get something healthy every day.

          The intercom on his multi-line phone beeped, and the lady herself spoke, “Chief? You’ve visitors,” There was a smile in her voice, “It’s Mr. Holmes-Lestrade and my favourite gentleman caller.”

          Greg didn’t bother answering, jumping up from his chair (even easier now that he’d shed twenty pounds and started bicycling with Mycroft and the kids on the weekends) and opened the door. “Hello you two,” He squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder as he leaned in for a kiss, “This is a welcome surprise. I was just thinking of breaking for lunch.”

          “We thought you might like company,” Mycroft suggested, smiling; he was looking particularly gorgeous in Greg’s favourite pink-checked button down, and his horn rimmed glasses. His sclera were slightly pink, his allergies must be bothering him, as he usually reserved his glasses for home. Greg thought they were incredibly sexy, and combined with the shirt, made him want to drag his husband into the office for a lengthier kiss. As it was, their kiss, though tame enough for public consumption, was probably enough for the work-place. It had taken a few years after his transfer over to this department for people to stop looking at them from the corners of their eyes when they kissed. Even in this day and age, eighteen years after the legalization of same sex marriage in the UK, they still got looks. Greg was the first openly gay DCI in the Metropolitan police force and he’d shaken things up quite a bit in his time here.

          “I’d love nothing more,” Greg agreed, turning to greet his son, who was happily perched on Maeve’s hip, playing with the fabric flower pinned on her cardigan. He held out his arms and grinned, oofing in exaggeration when Alfie launched himself into Greg’s arms. “Did you have a good time at swim class?”

          Enthusiastically, Alfie dove into his recital of his morning. Mid-story Alfie wiggled to get down, shrieking, “Mummy!”

          Greg let him slide to the carpet and watched as his son ran to fling himself into Sally’s arms. She crouched down, grinning ear to ear and hugging him tight.

          “I hope you don’t mind,” Mycroft murmured, “I called her on my way over…Alfie wanted to know if she could join us.”

          Greg shook his head, giving him a slight smile, “I’m okay with it if you are, Mycroft.” He stroked the back of his fingers over Mycroft’s, “You’re a wonderful father, you know that?”

          “So you’ve told me a time or two,” Mycroft said dryly; it was an understatement. Greg knew he heaped praise on his husband and kids, both because he couldn’t help himself, and because they deserved it. But after he’d cheated, they’d gone through a phase where he’d tried to overcompensate, until Mycroft confronted him about it in one of their counseling sessions, and told him it was hard to feel it was sincere when taken to that extreme. Since then he’d tried to watch himself, and from time to time he just asked, “Too much?”

          “No,” Mycroft assured him, rubbing a warm hand in the middle of the back, just where he knew Greg liked it best, “Perfect.”

          “Have a lovely lunch, Chief,” Maeve called after them. Although it wasn’t common knowledge that Alfie was Greg’s biological son, he suspected that Maeve had figured it out. He also knew she didn’t care and would never breathe a word of it to anyone.

          Greg turned back, “Bring you anything, Maeve?” He always asked and she always said no.  This time was no different; cheerfully she waved him off, assuring him that she had a Greek yoghurt for lunch. He shuddered, that was one thing he couldn’t stand, to him it tasted of bile. Whenever Mycroft ate it for breakfast he made him brush his teeth before he kissed him.

          Sally had let Alfie crawl up on her back and when they reached the street she took off loping toward the café. “Christ, my knees,” Greg groaned, and Mycroft laughed, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. They shared a fond look, and Greg pulled Mycroft closer, happiness growing inside him; to think he’d come close to throwing this away.

          “More vegetables than meat,” Mycroft reminded him as he was scanning the menu board. Mycroft had switched to vegetarian last year on his fiftieth birthday, but Greg simply couldn’t give up meat. “Oh,” his husband announced, “And I’ve promised the children pizza for tea, so choose something low calorie.”

          Greg whimpered, but manfully selected a grilled chicken salad and diet fizzy lemonade. “Pizza, eh?” He asked, when the four of them had found a table and were seated, Sally pulling a pen from her pocket and flipping to a fresh page of her notebook to let Alfie draw. “What’s the occasion?”

          Mycroft poured Alfie’s juice into his sippy cup and set it next to him, then busied himself distributing napkins and plastic forks, “Just that it’s Friday…and I may have let it slip that there exist pictures of you in your punk heyday.”

          “Oh, Christ,” Greg groaned dramatically, covering his eyes. Sally laughed, and Alfie looked up from his artwork to regard him solemnly, before throwing himself back in his booster seat and saying, “Oh, Christ!” The three adults tried to keep from giggling, but he looked so proud of himself that they broke down.

          “There goes my parent of the year award,” Greg said, only mildly guilty. The stuff that had panicked them as first time parents had mellowed by the time Alfie arrived. Nevertheless, “Not an appropriate word for you, young man.”

          Lunch passed too quickly, and Sally strode on ahead after bidding them farewell and covering Alfie in kisses; Greg and Mycroft lingered on the pavement, fingers linked, Alfie trying to climb Greg’s leg. “I wish I could spend the rest of the day with you,” Greg said wistfully, hating to leave them. It seemed to grow harder all the time. Only five more years until he was of age to retire, he reminded himself. Mycroft had plenty of money to keep them all more than well-fed and housed, but Greg was proud and stubborn, and despite his longing to be with his family, he wanted to finish his career at the traditional age, and in possession of his full pension.

          “Just a few more hours,” Mycroft reminded him, leaning in for a kiss. He hummed happily, “And then your torment shall begin. Where shall we start? Age fifteen? Oh but when you were seventeen you had a shaved head and a skirt.”

          “It was a _kilt_ ,” Greg sniped, his response automatic in their thirteen year old banter over his youthful follies. He smirked, “Besides, I have pictures of you at that age….hmm, where to begin? The ones of you as Lady Bracknell are particularly delightful…”

          Mycroft narrowed his eyes, fighting a smile, “I knew I should have disinherited Sherlock when he unearthed those.”

          “You can’t destroy the past,” Greg said, sobering slightly. Mycroft and Sherlock both had years of childhood memories and demons that they had faced over the years.

          “No,” Mycroft agreed, stroking Alfie’s hair with one hand and patting his other hand over Greg’s heart, “But you can take the good and make something better.”

          Unable to kiss him the way he wanted, with his eyes Greg promised some more memory building that evening once the kids were in bed. Watching his long-legged husband walk away from him, hand in hand with their son, Greg took a minute to thank the universe for his incredible life.

          He couldn’t wait to get home.

 

******

 

          The kitchen was clean, the twins were asleep in bed, Milo was reading _Taran Wanderer_ in his room, and Greg, having just checked all the doors and windows, set the alarm from his mobile and headed for their bedroom. Mycroft had gone up earlier to bathe Alfie and get him settled for bed, while Greg had put away dinner and overseen the twins showers and bedtime routine.

          He was tired, but looking forward to some quiet time alone with his spouse, and they might even be able to squeeze in an extra hour in the morning if the older kids took care of their own cereal and didn’t squabble too loud over the cartoons. Entering their room, Greg had to smile at Alfie sprawled out in the middle of their bed, even if he also sighed; he had really been looking forward to some one on one time. Sometimes Mycroft got paranoid about the children sleeping alone, and insisted that Alfie be allowed to stay in their room. The twins in particular were fond of crawling in with them when they’d had a scary dream or woken in the night.   
          Greg had had to learn to sleep in pyjamas for the first time in years when Milo started waking in the night as a five year old.

          Mycroft glanced up from the twin’s confiscated tablet, smiling at Greg. Still wearing his glasses, he had changed into a plain white t-shirt and a pair of Greg’s pyjama bottoms; he looked comfy, leaning back against the headboard, one of Alfie’s socked feet on his shin. “All settled?”

          “The twins put up a bit of a fuss at being in bed by nine, but it was pro forma,” Greg said, leaning on the doorway with arms crossed over his chest. “They’re already asleep. I warned Milo it was lights out at ten, but he’ll probably just read under the covers.”

          “Probably,” Mycroft agreed.

          “As for me…” Greg straightened, crossing to the bed, “I was thinking I could put the little ‘un here in his own bed and see you sorted.”

          “Oh?” A smile played around Mycroft’s mouth.

          “Hmm, yeah.” Greg leaned over, scooping Alfie gently up and holding his limp form to his chest. He smelled of strawberry soap and tooth paste and childhood. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, he met his husband’s eyes, “I want to kiss you all the way from your feet to your head, beautiful.”

          “I can…get on board with that,” Mycroft allowed, breaking into a smile. He put aside the tablet, “Hurry.”

          Greg did just that, tumbling the little boy gently into his “big boy” bed and making sure he was covered snugly and had his teddy and his nightlight. Shutting the master bedroom door behind him, he locked it firmly and began shedding his clothes, “Should I shower? Do I smell?” Greg asked, sliding in next to Mycroft and gathering him close for a kiss.

          “Only of manliness,” Mycroft twinkled. He surfaced from a kiss, “Although you taste of pepperoni. Oh Gregory…did you eat the children’s pizza?”

          “Just a slice, as I was putting it away,” Greg said guiltily. “It was so good, and the veggie one you and I and Alfie had tasted of kale and regret.”

          Mycroft broke into high giggles, squeezing Greg’s face between his hands, “You foolish, adorable man. I suppose one slice won’t do you any lasting harm.” He sighed in a very martyred fashion, eyes bright, “I shall have to do my best to help you work it off.”

          “Mmm, you do that,” Greg murmured, sliding down so he could kiss the long, pale neck that still drove him crazy, breathing in Mycroft’s delicious smell. He rubbed his palms lightly over Mycroft’s nipples, just the way he liked, and slipped an arm under his husband when his back arched off the bed. “Make me sweat, sunshine.”

          Mycroft, still sinewy and limber with his daily runs and his regular yoga, hooked a slim, toned leg around his hips and plunged his fingers into Greg’s (still thankfully) abundant hair and tugged on it the way he knew Greg loved. “Oh yeah,” he breathed, stroking his hands up Mycroft’s pale, freckled torso, smoothing the t-shirt out of his way, and leaving a damp trail from the shallow navel to the dip of his sternum. “God, I hope we’re still doing this when we’re eighty.”

          “I’m endeavouring to keep you alive,” Mycroft reminded him, sounding breathier than he had no doubt intended, “If only you would stop sneaking pepperoni.”

          “I’ll give it up forever, for you.” Greg promised, only partially joking. He’d give up so much to keep this man.

          “Promises, promises,” Mycroft gasped, pelvis rising as Greg slipped a hand under his hip and palmed his cheek.

          “I’ll always keep my promises to you,” Greg said. He stopped, sat up, and grinned at Mycroft’s automatic pout. “Speaking of promises…”

          “Where are you going?” Mycroft demanded in exasperation. He pressed the heel of his hand down over his groin, and Greg swallowed, watching his prick move under the softly worn flannel material of his trousers. Mycroft made a loose fist and lightly, lightly stroked himself, eyes on Greg’s face, his pupils dark and luminous. Seating himself cross-legged on the end of the bed, Greg pulled his husband’s feet into his lap.

          “I said I wanted to kiss you from your long toes—” Greg cupped the heel of Mycroft’s left foot in his palm and pressed his fingers into the arch as he bent his head, bringing the elegant foot up to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to the arch, nuzzled the toes, which curled ticklishly away from him, “—all the way up your long, long legs—” He ran an admiring hand up Mycroft’s leg, “—to your bony knees—” Greg brushed his fingers over the laparoscopic scars from Mycroft’s meniscus repair surgery and lightly touched the inside of his thigh. “And then I want to taste and lick and suck on your thick cock until you’re ready to come in my mouth.”

          Greg’s name was a drawn out sigh of desire from Mycroft; he stirred restlessly, the foot not in Greg’s hand finding its way between Greg’s legs and rubbing lightly over his erection. Groaning, Greg caught the foot and pressed it more firmly against him,   holding Mycroft’s gaze as he squeezed the other foot, kissing his toes.

          “I won’t let you, though,” Greg said, having to clear his throat twice before he could trust his voice.

          “No?” Mycroft was still lightly, almost nonchalantly playing with himself; the other hand, which had been behind his head, drifted down and pressed and circled over one of his nipples. He bit his lip, eyes nearly taken over by pupil now.

          Greg swallowed, releasing Mycroft’s feet and moving a little closer, draping Mycroft’s legs over his thighs as he grazed his inner thighs with his fingernails. “No…not just yet. Instead I want to bring you almost to the brink again and again as I work you up…I want you squirming for it by the time I slide inside you.”

          Mycroft made a wordless sound, hands stilling. He looked at Greg, breathing fast and shallow, “Greg, darling, it’s been _weeks_.”

          “I know, sweetheart,” Greg soothed, moving onto his knees and sliding onto his belly, nuzzling up Mycroft’s inner thigh and breathing in his musk. “Life’s been busy.”

          “I get so focused on the children,” Mycroft fretted, lowering his hands and burying them softly in Greg’s hair. His thumb brushed over Greg’s ear, drawing a shiver out of him. “And then in the evenings after they go to sleep, I’ve been working on the outline for my book…”

          “And I’m incredibly proud of you,” Greg reminded him, meeting his eyes. “It’s alright, Mycroft…it’s our life. It’s messy and busy and not always perfect. But now we’ve got all night to spoil one another with attention.” He lowered his mouth, lipping softly at Mycroft’s foreskin, “Let me love you, sweetheart.”

          It was close—it was very close. Greg was never selfish about lavishing attention on his husband…no point rushing, he felt, when there was so much pleasure to be had in giving his sweetheart pleasure. Mycroft nearly came several times before Greg nudged his entrance with the head of his prick. “Ohhhh…” Mycroft sighed, voice a bit rough, head tilted back on the pillow, cheeks hot pink; he had become quite vocal in his approval as Greg had prepared him with mouth and fingers. On nights like this Greg was thankful the walls had been built with extra soundproofing when they renovated.

          “God,” Greg gritted through a clenched jaw, fingers tightening on Mycroft’s hips as he slowly pressed into him, “Sweetheart, you’re so snug—am I hurting you?”

          “Quite the opposite,” Mycroft reassured him, running the flat of his hands up Greg’s chest and tugging on his shoulders, eyes smiling, “Closer…I want to kiss you.”

          “Happily,” Greg responded, shifting so he could put his knees on either side of Mycroft’s hips, and brace his hands next to his shoulders. Mycroft, that limber bastard, drew his knees up toward his chest, hooking his calves over Greg’s thighs, and pressing his heels into his flanks. His arms went eagerly around Greg’s back, pulling him in close.

          “Perfect,” Mycroft sighed, slick lips sliding back and forth over Greg’s teasingly. He smiled against his mouth, “I’ve missed you.”

          “I missed you too,” Greg said, voice deepening without his direction; Christ, it felt physically amazing, as always, whether it had been three days or three weeks. But—and here was something he hadn’t always understood—the bloody emotional connection was stronger and more amazing still. He dropped his head to Mycroft’s shoulder, eyes stinging, “I’m so fucking glad you didn’t give up on me, Mycroft.”

          “Never,” Mycroft whispered fiercely in his ear, fingers digging into his back, “You’re my family, darling, and I won’t give up on you.”

          “I’ll never hurt you like that again,” He swore, raising his head to meet Mycroft’s gaze, “Not like that. I may fuck up a million times more in our lifetime—probably will—but I’ll never betray you again.”

          “I know,” Mycroft soothed him, smiling, hands caressing his back. “I know, love.”

          They kissed lazily, hearts thudding hard in their chests; there was all the time in the world for lovemaking…they had a lifetime ahead of them to share endless nights together.

         


End file.
